


Dressage

by islasands



Category: Adam Lambert (Musician)
Genre: Escape, Exploration, Horsemen, M/M, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-25
Updated: 2011-07-25
Packaged: 2017-10-21 18:10:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,949
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/228105
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/islasands/pseuds/islasands
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Adam is walking away from his career, the world of music, and the unreality of his life as an artist. He meets Makepeace and is entranced by his world of horses and wide open spaces. But there is more to Makepeace than meets the eye.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dressage

Part 1

A clean slate. He was walking free with a clean slate. He was walking down the middle of a road in the middle of nowhere, with no place he was meant to be, and no person he was meant to see. That reminded him. He took his cell phone out of his pocket and threw it into the roadside vegetation. He wiped his hands. He paused and took in the measurements of his isolation. They were pleasingly expansive. Ahead of him the road dissolved in a haze of distance. On either side of the road the farmland rolled away, dotted with trees and the odd farm house.  Above him the sky was summer blue decorated with scalloped patterns of cloud. The air was warm. He took off his jacket and slung it over his shoulder. All I need now is some Ry Cooder slide, he thought to himself. Paris Texas.

He was not incognizant of the movie aspect to his situation. He was the man walking down an isolated country road, between fields of wheat and corn, incongruously dressed in white shirt, black pants, and black boots with heels. His hair, standing on end, was also black. His sunglasses were too, but only from a distance. Up close his eyes could be seen, a clear blue grey, wolf like beneath the upward slant of black brows that were more angular than curved. He was definitely out of place. What was his back story? Where was he going? Cue in the music.

Adam smiled. Cue in the music. It was about time it was cued in for him. The past two years had wrung every drop of music out of his being. By the end of the tour he had felt like a spent cicada.

 _“But you can’t walk away now.”_

 _“Yes I can.”_

 _“Music is your life.”_

 _“No, it’s not.”_

 _“You’ve worked so hard for this.”_

 _“No, not for this. This isn’t what I worked for.”_

A car pulled up and stopped a little way ahead of him. The dust flew up when it stopped and was still swirling when Adam caught up. The driver looked up at him, narrowing his eyes. He was young and looked as beat up as his car. His hair was lanky blonde, his eyes green, his skin tanned. Clearly he spent most of his time out of doors. The corners of his mouth turned up slightly, as though he was permanently on the brink of smiling or laughing. At you, Adam thought. Not with you.

“You need a ride?” the driver asked. His arm was resting on the base of the open window and his hand was drumming on the frame. Adam noticed the slender rectangular shape of his wrists and how his long tapering fingers terminated in pale nails with silvery white half-moons.

“Hop in,” the driver said. He smiled. The creases of dimples flashed in his cheeks. His eyes crinkled up and Adam noticed how long and dark his eyelashes were. “Don’t worry. I have no plans to abduct you.” He smiled broadly. “No immediate plans,” he added. Adam mentally raised an eyebrow. Was he flirting with him? He rested a hand on the ledge of the open window. He looked down the road. He looked at the driver. He made his decision.

 _“Stop the car.”_

 _“You can’t get out here.”_

 _“Stop the car.”_

 _“Look, it’s par for the course. You know that. The come down when it all stops. Especially after a tour. It’s depressing. You just need a break.”_

 _“I’m not depressed and you don’t know what I need. Stop the car.”_

 _“But anything could happen.”_

 _“It’s over. Pay everyone. Pay yourself. And don’t call me, I’ll call you.”_

They drove several miles down the road without talking. The driver pulled up at the entrance to a farm. About a mile down the farm road, which was lined with trees, was a house and outbuildings. In the fields closest to the road there were horses.

“This is my place,” the man said. “You can come in and meet the family if you want, or I can take you right on into town. It’s about 20 k north.”

“Are they your horses?” Adam asked.

“They sure are. They’re my family, truth be told. And I’m Make.”

“Make?” Adam said, shaking his hand.

“Makepeace Redding.”

Adam was charmed by the name. “I’ve never met a Makepeace before. I’m Adam. Adam Lambert.”

“Okay, Adam,” Make said. “So what’s it to be?”

They drove down the long farm road, through some gates, and parked in front of the house. The walled courtyard was T-shaped with stables at the end of one wing and a barn and implement  shed at the other. Adam followed Make into the house. They went down a hall and came out into a room that ran the length of the house, with  four sets of double doors all opening onto a covered verandah. The room was scantily furnished. There were no books or paintings or ornaments of any kind. At one end of the room there was a piano. At the centre there was a large oak table, completely bare. Make brought him a drink and they went out onto the verandah.

“I thought you had a family,’ Adam said.

“I do. My horses. I told you that.”

“So you did.”

Make went down the steps onto the lawn. Adam liked the way he walked. It was a lanky walk. He wasn’t tall but he looked tall. He kept his hands in his pockets and talked sideways at Adam. His hair fell over his eyes. Adam liked that too, those long green eyes looking out behind strands of gold hair. They came to a fence. Make put his fingers in his mouth and whistled. The field on the other side of the fence concealed a hillside and Adam heard rather than saw the approach of the horse. It cantered into view, a beautiful chestnut horse. When it reached the fence it  wheeled slightly to check its speed. Make rested his arms on the top of the fence. The horse stood quietly. It seemed to be looking Adam over. Make turned his head and smiled at Adam. “This is Sylvie.” He straddled the fence, and said something to the horse. The horse moved alongside the fence. Make gripped the mane and quickly mounted her. He adjusted his position. He looked down at Adam.

“When I’m on the run the way you are, I run like this.” He leaned forward slightly. The horse turned aside and in a moment was flying across the field and disappearing down the hill. Adam watched as they emerged on the opposite hill and then ran into a grove of trees. He waited for them to return. He was deeply affected by the relationship between the horse’s animal strength and Make’s easy and loose self-possession. There was more to it than a man mastering a beast, or owning and caring for a pet. The horse wasn't tame but then neither was its rider. Not when they rode like that. His thoughts strayed to Make’s slim hips, and slender wrists, the slight stoop of his shoulders as he sat on the horse. Oh for fuck’s sake, he said to himself. He grinned as the horse came cantering to the fence.

Make dismounted and came and stood in front of Adam. The horse followed. The pair of them stood there, looking at him. Make’s hand was on the horse’s neck.

“If you want to stay a while, you can,” he said. ‘I’ll teach you to ride.”

“I’m scared of them, actually,’ Adam said. “But I’d like to stay,” he added, levelly meeting Make’s questioning gaze. It _was_ questioning, he said to himself as he followed Make back to the house.

Part 2   
_  
_

They drove into town for supplies, mainly on Adam’s account for he needed more than the nothing he had arrived with. Make had already fitted him with riding boots. They shared the same size in feet, and that wasn’t all they shared. They both liked to talk at length and then fall silent. In only a few days they had discovered a natural rhythm to their companionship.

In the mornings, before Adam woke, Make left the house to tend to his horses. He didn’t invite Adam to accompany him. Adam would wake, wander around the silent house, make a coffee, sit on the verandah and watch the sky turning blue. Then he might go for walks on the farm, or write in a journal, or go back to bed and sleep. In the afternoons he had horse-riding lessons or watched Make on the large sandy arena behind the barn where he trained his dressage horses. In the evening they rode. From the very first night Make had insisted. ‘I’ll lead you,’ he had said, after hoisting Adam into the saddle. “Riding isn’t a sport. It’s a conversation. You need to learn how to listen.”

And Adam had tried to hear. He was intrigued by the sensation of being supported by a living being who had no recognizeable agenda.  “Doesn’t a horse mind being ridden?” he asked. ‘I mean, it’s not what it was born to do.” Make looked up at him. He was adjusting the bridle. “It’s a deal. They make a deal with you. All relationships are deals. The difference with a horse is that their baseline is trust.” Adam leant forward and tentatively touched the side of his horse’s neck. Make held his hand beneath the horse’s sensitive mouth. He ran his hand softly over the nostrils and ran it up to lie close to Adam’s hand. He briefly laid his forehead on the horse’s neck.    

Adam gently stroked the horse. “But how can he trust me?’ His question was not ingenuous. The horse was stepping uneasily. He could feel its uncertainties.

“He can’t. Not straight away. But he trusts me.”  Make went from side to side of the horse, adjusting the placement of Adam’s feet in the stirrups. “Just let your legs relax. He doesn’t expect you to give directions. For now he’s going to follow me. Feet down. Like this.”

Adam watched him adjusting the saddle on his own horse. For the first time in a long time he felt rather than apprehended his insignificance in the grander scheme of things. The grasses, drinking up the sunlight, had no interest in him. After he trod on them they sprang back up, undeterred in their mission to photosynthesize. The sun placed its hand on the back of his neck but its caress was impartial. He could have been a leaf on a tree, or the glossy flank of a horse, or an insect swarming with others of its kind above a trough of dank water. He liked the bare utilitarian feel of Make’s house. He liked Make’s talk, which also was spare but philosophical. He liked lying there at night, in the big silence of the countryside, wondering if Make was asleep in his room.

And not once did he miss music. Not once did he inquire about the piano. Not once did he ask if Make ever played records on the old radiogram. He was neither afraid of nor bewildered by the ease with which he had abandoned his own ship. Each day spent with Make made him feel the stuff he was made of – and it all came down to cells. It was as simple as that.  He was an island of myriad cells that mindlessly work day and night to achieve homeostasis, the right amounts of light, warmth, coolness, food, water, sleep. He felt as though he was coming home to himself, the way Make came home to his house at night, and his horses to their stables. A day was done.  Energy had been expended and now it was time to replenish it in the dark. To eat a simple meal. To sit side by side on the one couch and talk the day over. To laugh or be serious. To catch each other out taking more than a purely friendly interest in one another’s faces and bodies.

For it was true that something other than the companionship of strangers was growing between them. Adam felt it every time Make physically encouraged him during riding lessons, when he handled Adam’s body, teaching him how to sit, how to hold the reins, how to grasp the idea that the pressure of his legs could actually speak to a horse. Every single touch of Make’s hand made him feel the mystery of life surging in his cells, shunting into his head and his heart like sap in a tree. He would smile down at Make’s floppy fringe and crinkly eyes and wryly hopeful smiles and feel himself to be artlessly attractive, even beautiful. He imagined it was how Sylvie felt when Make entered her stall, and they nuzzled one another, the horse whinnying her low greeting, and Make calling her “my girl”.

But it was the dressage that was to capture him, heart and soul.

Part 3

Adam watched Make preparing for a training session. He was wearing a white shirt that had buttons missing. He pulled on a bandana and used it to push his hair back. It stood up unevenly like a loose shock of corn tassels. He looked up at Adam. “Help me with these,” he said. Adam knelt in front of him and slipped his thumbs in the boot tabs. He rested the heel on his thigh and provided the resistance Make needed to work his foot into the boot. The boots gave off the pungent smell of cedar. Make explained to Adam how cedar chips keep boots dry and free from bacteria. The first boot was on. Adam absentmindedly ran his hands up Make’s leg, feeling the smooth warmth of the leather. Make held out the other boot. “For dressage you want a high boot, close on the calf.” Adam looked up at him. He took the remaining boot and instead of placing it on his thigh he placed it on his groin. Make put his hands on Adam’s shoulders. He pushed into the boot. Adam bent his head. He held the tabs firmly. Make pushed down on his shoulders. He worked his foot into the boot. Make briefly allowed the heel to sink softly against Adam’s groin. He put his foot on the ground but didn’t immediately take his hands from Adam’s shoulders.

“I need to empty my mind,” he said. “You are not exactly helping.”

Adam noticed the gold flecks in his irises, the slight lift of his upper lip, the clean lines of his jaw. He was acutely aware of the slender torso beneath the thin white shirt. It was their first moment of intimacy, as delicate as the motes dancing in beams let into the stable from the high windows. Make stood up. He settled into his boots. “Here,’ he said to Adam, handing him a bridle. He took the saddle from its post and slung it beneath his arm. “If I walk funny, it’s because I don’t want the ankle to get too supple.” He grinned at Adam.

Without meaning to, without knowing he was going to do it, Adam reached out and turned back Make’s crumpled shirt collar. His knuckles brushed against Make’s throat. One of the horses whinnied. Adam noticed how white his hand was against Make’s skin.

“Explain it to me,’ he said, mentally and physically stepping away from the electrification of the caress. “Dressage. I’ve seen it. It looks like horse dancing.”

They walked out into the sunshine. Ahead of them lay the sandy arena and tethered to a post on the opposite fence stood the most beautiful horse Adam had ever seen. The classic 'black beauty', tall, sensitive, powerful, the epitome of accidental arrogance. Make took the bridle from him. Their hands touched. "Wait here," he said. Adam waited. He surveyed the countryside. On his right the field ran down to a pond. Ducks were alighting on the water. The glimmering ripples seemed to transport their concentricity into his chest. He put his hand on his chest. His emotions also seemed to be moving from a central point in his heart, in similarly soft circles. He watched the way Make handled the horse, speaking to it  in a low voice, his movements soothingly authoritative. For all he was so slender it was obvious that his physicality was as inherently as powerful as that of the horse. The animal suddenly raised its tail and defecated. The breeze brought its pungent smell across the arena. Adam’s nostrils flared. He smiled. 

Make led the horse to a block and mounted. He looked over at Adam. “I don’t see it like that,’ he said. “Not a dance.For me it’s about being meticulous. Meticulous about how you think, and how you move. Horses manipulate energy in ways that we don’t. In dressage, if you’re willing, you can learn to meld their instincts with your own. But you have to have control of your own body to ride well.” Adam nodded. He blinked at the sunlight.

 _“That performance was off the planet. You keep going from strength to strength. I’ve never seen that kind of energy on a stage before.”_

 _“It was fucked. And I am fucked.”_

 _“Well, it doesn’t show. You sure as hell aren’t running on empty.”_

 _“I’m running on obligation.”_

 _“Then it was a wild obligation.”_

 _“Does a cloud give a fucking shit about its obligations?”_

Make rode over to where Adam was standing. He looked down gravely. The horse stood still. Its expression also seemed grave. For some reason the poise of their mutual gravitas made Adam feel sorrowful.

“It all comes down to the horse’s centre of gravity,” Make said, “and how you can work it with such subtlety the horse responds with a happy mind. In essence, you learn to feel what a horse is feeling.”

He slowly led the horse onto the sand. Adam watched as he took the horse through its sections. He was fascinated by the rhythmic stepping, the elegant restraint of the horse’s footwork, the way Make’s legs never once changed position, the way the sun was catching on his hair, the way the breeze would raise his shirt so that his lower back was exposed. He leaned on the fence post, thinking without thinking.

On the way back to the stable Make discussed some of the problems he was having with the horse. He ignored Adam’s ignorance of technical terms.

“He tired too quickly, not in his muscles but in his motivation. This horse finds motivation in rhythm. My job is to help him find it. If I use plenty of variations in the shoulder-ins and shoulder-fores, carefully adjusting the angles and grades, he finds it.” Make glanced at Adam and stopped walking. A cloud had come between the sun and the earth. The horse snickered. Make let the reins fall to the ground and took Adam’s face in both hands. The horse didn’t move away but stood by them in an attitude of aloof patience as they made their first kiss.

Part 4

It was a full moon. Adam sat on the edge of the verandah swinging his legs. The countryside, bathed in the cool light, seemed detached as though its thoughts were elsewhere. A lone cicada sang nearby. A few stars came out as if they they too wanted to drink in the peaceful moonlight. Adam turned and looked back at the house. The remains of their evening meal lay on the table. Make’s bandana hung over the chair. Adam wondered where he had gone, and why.

“Hey.”

And there he was, hands in his pockets, smiling down at him.

“Hey yourself,” Adam said.

They took their time looking at each other.

“Let’s ride,” Make said.

Adam stood up. The languor of the moonlight made him feel unhurried in his thoughts and actions. He looked up at the moon and opened a door in his mind.

 _“But this was your dream. ”_

 _“I know.”_

 _“And you have more freedom now. You can call the shots.”_

 _“That’s true.’_

 _“Then what’s missing? What isn’t happening?”_

 _“I thought I would feel something, something I wanted to feel, and I don’t.”_

 _“What was that?”_

They walked down to the stables. Beneath their feet the white gravel was like crunchy snow. Makes’ shirt was whiter than it was by day and his hair, still standing on end, was silvery white. Make paused at the stable door. He stared at Adam’s mouth as though making as assessment. He narrowed his eyes as he looked into Adam’s.

“Will I do?’ Adam asked.

‘We’ll see.” Make opened the door.

Inside the stables the darkness was rich and heavy with animal smells and the dusty fragrance of hay. Moonlight streamed through the high windows. The horses moved in their stalls, their nostrils flaring to take in the scent of their rider. Make moved along the stalls, greeting them, touching them, gently pushing their necks away. He led the way into the tack room. He switched on a wall lamp. He pulled out a chair.

‘My turn,” he said. He cleared a space on a table and nodded at Adam. A faint smell of liniment lingered in the air. Make drew up a chair. One by one he removed Adam’s shoes. He took hold of his foot and manipulated it, turning it, feeling the bones of the toes, the instep, the ankle. He ran his hand up Adam’s jeans and grasped his calf. He looked up. “Your Achilles need lengthening. Otherwise you’ll never be able to get your heels down.” He placed Adam’s foot on his lap and ran his hands up his leg, holding his knee with one hand while the other continued right up to his groin. “This, your inner thigh, together with your seat, has to be confident. No weakness. Your thighs speak to the horse. Through them he feels your mood, your strength. Your desires.”

Adam ran his hand over Make’s hair. It felt wet, like wet silk. Make sat back.

"You must be appropriately shod,” he said. He pushed and pulled the boots on. ‘These are field boots. Not so close on the calf, and softer.” He stood up and moved Adam’s leg apart. He positioned himself between them and then, taking his thighs, pulled him closer to the table edge. “Put them around my hips,” he said. “Take your hands off the table. Suspend them just above." Adam obeyed each command with equanimity. “Don’t lock your legs on me.” Make said. “Quell the urge to use your hands. That’s right. Press lightly. Use your inner thighs. Make them speak to me. Tell me what you want me to do.”

 Adam pressed lightly. He let his arms drift outward to assist his efforts to empty them of his need to touch.

“Turn out within your pelvis,” Make said. He was watching the determination in Adam’s lips. He could feel the faint shuddering in his thighs.

“When are you going to going to say ‘that’s my girl, my beauty’?” Adam said.

“When you’re in tune with me," Make said. He leant forward and kissed him. He ducked down slightly, making Adam pursue the kiss, and put his hands beneath Adam’s thighs. He shook them. He laughed against Adam’s teeth. Adam pushed himself off the table and took him in his arms. Strength seemed to flow out of Make’s being, transmitting into Adam’s muscles. Adam’s hands spread in response. He didn’t caress. He didn’t gently urge. He squeezed every inch of Make’s arms, and shoulders, his fingers testing that strength. His kiss was the same. Not tentative, not passionate, not inquiring,  but carefully insistent. Meticulously insistent.

Make stepped back, out of his arms.

“Time to ride," he said, softly.

Adam reached out and put the flat of his palm on Make’s chest. Make covered it with his own hand, closing over it as though taking something more than just his hand. Adam smiled. He closed his eyes and his lips puckered down. He opened them and smiled again. He took in a deep breath.  Make’s eyes were dreamy, half-closed.

“No words,” Adam said. He took the gratitude he felt out into the moonlight. For the first time in what seemed forever he felt in charge of his timing, his rhythm. He relaxed into the horse. He could feel the horse's mouth through the reins, its personality through his thighs. Without knowing how he did it, he urged the horse forward. As they walked along on the silvery field he began to silently tell the horse his secrets.

" _Understood. That was what I thought I would feel. That's what I worked for._ "

The horse nodded.

" _Later, I will take Makepeace to bed_."

The horse nodded again.

"Would you like me to sing?" he asked the horse. He searched his mind for the song. He looked at Make, riding ahead of him. He remembered the song.

 _There is a young cowboy who lives on the range_

 _His horse and his cattle are his only companions_

 _He works in the saddle and he sleeps in the canyon_

 _Waiting for summer, his pastures to change_

They rode on as he sang. When the song ended the silence was changed, It was as though the song had left its perfume in the air. Make turned his horse and circled,back so that they could ride side by side. All around them the countryside continued bathing in the cool moonlight.

Part 5

Make stood in the doorway of Adam’s room. “I want to show you something,” he said. Adam turned away from the window. He had been waiting for him. Clouds had appeared out of nowhere, and were streaming past the moon like carriages of a train. The moon kept appearing and disappearing in their gaps.

‘Not now,” he said. He turned back to the window. “I’m ready for you. And you are for me.” He listened to Make moving to the bed, sitting down and taking off his boots, standing up and taking off his clothes, then walking around to stand behind him. He waited for those arms to circle him, and they did. He took one of Make’s wrists and raised his hand to his face. Make’s fingers ran over his cheeks, his nose, his lips. Adam closed his eyes. Make’s hands were so accomplished. A horseman’s hands. With Adam still holding his wrist, Make slid his hand down to his chest. He slowly spread his fingers over his breast, pressing his middle finger hard against its nipple. He slowly moved his hand down his abdomen and down the front of his jeans. He spread his hand to cover his cock and palpate the soft flesh of his lower abdomen. Adam remembered what Make had said, “ _The difference with a horse is that their baseline is trust_.”

Tears rolled down his cheeks and he let them be. He turned to Make. “I want you to fuck me while I cry,” he said.

Make took hold of the waistband of his jeans and pulled him to the bed. He gently pushed him down. He unzipped his pants and pulled them off. “Move back, my girl,” he said perfunctorily. “My beauty,” he added wryly, looking down. He reached down the end of the bed and took a pillow. “Lift up,” he said. He placed the pillow beneath Adam’s lower back. He bent down and ran his tongue on the underside of his cock, then lolled it softly beneath the glans. He slid down the bed and lowered his face onto his anus, then ran his tongue back and forth on his perineum.

Adam had not thought it possible for his tear ducts to operate when he was so intensely aroused. But they could. When he felt Make’s hands caressing his inner thighs, encouraging him to relax his sphincter and welcome his tongue, fresh tears crept out from the corners of his closed eyes. “Put your legs on my shoulders,” Make said, and as soon as he did so he took Adam’s cock in his hand, and into his mouth, and gently worked a finger into his anus.

As though to protect their privacy the moon suddenly disappeared. The room darkened. Their love-making slowed to a walk. Make gathered Adam into his arms and kissed his hair.

“When you go back it won’t be the same,” he said. “Your work will change. You may be a novice rider but you've already learned that you don’t own a horse. Music isn't tame, either.”

Adam thought about it. He smiled into Make’s shoulder.

“And I will always be here, “ Make went on, “but I expect you to do the exercises I gave you.”

Adam snuggled into him, happy as a happy child. “What did you want to show me?” Adam asked, remembering.

“My studio,” Make said.

“Studio,” Adam repeated.

“Yes. Where I work. Music is my other world too. I session for various bands. Write.” He turned and grinned at Adam. “I don’t sing.”

Adam sat up. “Wait. You really do that? Really? What do you play? I want to hear you play. I want to listen now.”

Make yawned. “Guitar. Slide is my thing. In the morning. Go to sleep.”

Adam lay back down and stared at the ceiling. Make turned over and threw an arm over him. He was asleep.

“Cue in the music,” Adam said to the dark. "All I need now is some Ry Cooder slide.” He mentally hugged himself. He had never felt so joyous - or so understood.


End file.
